


And You Sure As Hell Can't Lie to Me Now

by whisperedstory



Series: Truth [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Idiots in Love, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Truth Serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23266750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedstory/pseuds/whisperedstory
Summary: "The ale tastes kinda funny, right?" Jaskier asks and brings the tankard back to his mouth before Geralt can react.Someone slips Jaskier a truth serum.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Truth [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673032
Comments: 65
Kudos: 2087





	And You Sure As Hell Can't Lie to Me Now

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by [dancing_adrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancing_Adrift).
> 
> Title taken from "Marbles" by The Amazing Devil.
> 
> [Crow89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crow89/pseuds/Crow89) asked for a sequel where Jaskier is hit by a truth spell, so here it is! <3

Jaskier makes a thoughtful noise and Geralt glances at him, checking him over and making sure he's alright. Jaskier takes another sip from his tankard, brows furrowed, and then turns to Geralt.

"The ale tastes kinda funny, right?" he asks and brings the tankard back to his mouth before Geralt can react. He manages a gulp or two before ale is sloshing over and splashing onto the table as Geralt snatches the tankard out of his hands.

"Hey. Hey, careful. You have your own ale, you know?" Jaskier complains and looks down at himself with a frown. "You got it all over my shirt. Great. Thank you, Geralt, really." 

Geralt sniffs at Jaskier's ale. There's a bitter scent to it, probably faint to a human, but not to him. "We have bigger problems right now," he mutters and grabs Jaskier's wrist.

"What the—" Jaskier starts, as Geralt drags him from the table to the staircase.

"Your ale. Someone tampered with it," Geralt says and he tries not to let the panic that is slowly rising inside of him show. 

"Tampered?" Jaskier repeats, voice going high at the end. He cranes his head back as Geralt keeps nudging him up the stairs, his eyes wide. "As in, poured something in it for laughs or as in, poisoned my ale. Oh gods, am I going to die? Geralt?"

"No," Geralt grits out, because he isn't going to let that happen. The scent of the ale had been vaguely familiar and though Geralt can't quite pinpoint what it is, he's pretty sure it's nothing fatal; it doesn't smell like any of the deadly toxins he can think of. That doesn't mean it's not something nasty.

"Oh, good. Good. I'm really much too young and too pretty to die," Jaskier rambles. "I have so much more to give to the world. So much I still want to do and see. And you! I can't leave you! I still want to do everything with you."

Geralt opens the door to their room and ushers Jaskier in. "Can you shut up for a moment, Jaskier?"

Jaskier slumps down onto the bed, looking up at Geralt, cheeks flushed and eyes upset. "No," he says. "I talk when I'm nervous. It feels like everything is pressing down on me when it's quiet, like I can't _breathe_ , and if I keep talking, it's easier. All the thoughts in my head aren't quite so confusing and scary if it's not quiet. And I'm really nervous now, because someone _poisoned me_ and I know you said I won't die, but what if I die?"

Geralt pauses. Something clicks—the scent, Jaskier's babbling.

Geralt kneels down in front of Jaskier. "Jaskier, tell me a lie."

"Hmm? Why would I tell you a lie?"

"Just do it," Geralt encourages. "Anything. Tell me the sky isn't blue. Just give it a try."

"The sky," Jaskier starts and grimaces, looking pained. "Of course the sky is blue. Unless it's rainy, then it's kinda gray. Sometimes pink and orange, at dusk or dawn. But mostly it's blue."

"Hmm."

"What? What's going on? Geralt, what's wrong with me?" Jaskier asks and slumps, rubbing his chest. "This isn't good, is it? I feel kinda funny. My chest feels all tight."

"Try again. Another lie," Geralt says, and he hates to see Jaskier struggle, opening his mouth in an attempt to say something but not being able to force the words out. Geralt places a soothing hand on Jaskier's neck. There's a constant voice in his head these days— _take care of Jaskier, keep Jaskier safe_. He's not sure when it happened, when he went from tolerating Jaskier to wanting to shield him from the world. It's been there for a while now; his instincts decided Jaskier is his long before his brain caught on. 

Finally, when it becomes obvious Jaskier can't form the words, he gives Jaskier's neck a squeeze. "You can stop, Jaskier, it's okay," he murmurs. "You can't lie."

"I can't lie?" Jaskier echoes.

Geralt presses his lips together. "Truth serum," he says. "Luckily, these things are usually weak. It should wear off in an hour or two."

"Huh," Jaskier mutters. "Why would anyone give me a truth serum? You, I understand. You never talk. But me?"

Geralt shrugs. "You do lie a lot," he says. Jaskier looks outraged, but after a second or two it becomes apparent that he can't form any sort of denial. 

"Maybe it was meant for me," Geralt suggests, just to get the sad look off Jaskier's face. 

"Yeah, maybe," Jaskier nods. "So. What do we do now?"

"Wait it out," Geralt says and reaches up to card his fingers through Jaskier's hair, pushing unruly strands out of his eyes. He stands up, presses a kiss to Jaskier's forehead and straightens. "We don't have to talk."

Jaskier grabs Geralt by the wrist, looking up at him with pleading eyes. "I really do hate silence when I'm nervous," he says.

Geralt sighs and nods, sitting down next to him. "Alright," he says and then clears his throat awkwardly, not sure what to do now, if Jaskier expects him to talk. Geralt is willing to do a lot of things for Jaskier, but he can't just let words flow the way Jaskier can.

Jaskier huffs out a bitter laugh. "This is shit, Geralt. If I find out who did this, I will wring their neck with my bare hands. I will stab them with one of your swords. I will write a thousand slanderous ballads about them."

He doesn't need to be under the influence of a truth serum for Geralt to know he isn't lying. He knows Jaskier would, indeed, do all of those things without batting an eye. He smiles at Jaskier.

"Perhaps a dagger will do? I fear you would only hurt yourself with my sword," he teases, and Jaskier's eyes widen.

"Geralt of Rivia! Did you just make a joke?"

"Perhaps," Geralt says. He takes Jaskier's hand in his and brings it up to his mouth, pressing his lips to Jaskier's wrist where he can feel the flutter of his pulse, a little fast but steady. "Still nervous?"

Jaskier bites down on his bottom lip. "Yes," he says. "A little. I fear I will say something stupid, something I didn't wish to tell you."

Geralt pretends it doesn't hurt, knowing that Jaskier wants to keep things from him. He keeps so much from Jaskier, most things, really. And he knows Jaskier has secrets, has things he doesn't talk about. He slips sometimes, mentions things from his childhood, lets Geralt see his insecurity and fears before his mask comes back on. Because Jaskier wears one, each and every day, just like Geralt does, only his is a bright smile and mindless chatter and too loud laughter. It's dramatics and jokes and music. A pretty smile and even prettier lies.

He gets to see past the facade more often than anyone else. Gets to see Jaskier when he's sad and tired, when he needs comfort or reassurance. When he lets himself be Jaskier, instead of Jaskier, the bard. And Geralt takes what Jaskier gives him and lets him keep the rest to himself. Let's Jaskier choose what to share—and he knows just how terrifying it is when that choice is taken away.

"Then tell me things you don't mind me knowing," Geralt offers. "Keep your secrets to yourself. I won't ask." 

Jaskier gives him a small smile. "You don't mind me talking?"

Geralt shrugs. "It's never stopped you before," he grumbles and when Jaskier's face falls, he adds, "I don't mind."

"Oh," Jaskier says and he looks pleased, his smile growing a little bigger. "Oxenfurt. I can tell you about Oxenfurt."

It's a safe topic, Jaskier's years in Oxenfurt, unlike everything that came before and not like Jaskier's present life, either.

"Hmm," Geralt hums.

"It's such a lovely place. Oh, I loved it there. The students and professors, the music, the teachings," Jaskier says and Geralt sees him relax. "I still think about it quite a bit, you know. We should go there someday. Maybe."

"We could," Geralt agrees.

"I could have stayed, could have taught there," Jaskier says with a thoughtful look. "It wouldn't have been a bad life. I could have lived there quite comfortably."

Geralt doesn't reply, not sure _how_ to reply to that, and Jaskier looks at him with a soft smile.

"But I never would have seen the world. Never really known all the things the continent has to offer," Jaskier continues. "And I wanted to, so desperately."

"Not all of it is good. Most of it isn't," Geralt mutters, and Jaskier laughs.

"Oh, you would think so, my dear witcher," he says. "I think a lot of it is quite good, really. And how dull it would be to live your life never facing the unknown, never knowing the thrill of adventure, the taste of foreign food, the view of unfamiliar mountains and seas?"

"It would be safer."

"Safety can stifle you. It might not kill you, but it never allows you to live," Jaskier muses and cocks his head to the side. "But lucky for me, I met you."

"That wasn't luck, Jaskier. You're an idiot for following me," Geralt grumbles, but even he has to admit he sounds _fond_. Jaskier does that to him, brings that out in him unbidden. 

"I have no regrets. And if something happened to me today, worse than this, I mean, I still would not," Jaskier replies. "The things I have seen, they're not always great, but they're real. And I'm _living,_ Geralt. I can go where I want and sing what I want and be anything I want to be. I think that's quite marvellous. And my music is much better for it. I'm happier for it. And I have you to thank for that." 

Jaskier stops and lets out a short, nervous laugh. "Oh. Perhaps I should stop talking now."

"Before you say things you don't want to say?" Geralt guesses.

Jaskier ducks his head. "Yes."

Geralt nods and brings Jaskier's hand back up, curled in his. He presses his mouth to the palm, then to where it tapers off into his wrist, nosing the fabric up to kiss the spot where he can feel the beating of Jaskier's heart the strongest. "Perhaps we could do something other than talking," he suggests, and Jaskier sucks in a quiet breath.

"Y—yes, we could do that," he says.

Geralt grins and leans in while tugging Jaskier forward, drawing him into a kiss. His lips are soft under Geralt's and he opens them up when Geralt's tongue sneaks out. Geralt cups his face in one hand, angles it just so as he licks into Jaskier's mouth and slides their tongues together, kisses him wet and deep. Jaskier hums and Geralt feels the sound as much as he hears it, sending a shockwave of arousal through him. 

It's the littlest things with Jaskier sometimes, a touch or a sound or a look, that sets Geralt off. It's been over a year and he still reacts the same way, still can't get enough. 

He pushes Jaskier down onto the mattress, following him without breaking the kiss, settling down on top of him. 

He wants to devour and at the same time he wants to take it slow, wants to put his mouth all over Jaskier and touch him in all the places he knows will make Jaskier feel good. 

His hands slide under Jaskier's open doublet and he tugs the fabric of his shirt free from his trousers, lets his hands slip underneath to touch the warm, soft skin of his waist. Jaskier shudders beneath him, grips Geralt's shoulders. 

Geralt bites at Jaskier's bottom lip as he draws back, and Jaskier moans, lifting his head to chase him and Geralt can't resist pressing another kiss to his puffy, pink mouth. "What do you want?" he asks while sliding his hands higher, running up over Jaskier's ribs.

"Don't—don't ask me that," Jaskier pants with a small laugh. " _Everything_. Oh Gods, Geralt, I want everything you want to give me."

"Jaskier," Geralt groans and ducks down, pressing kisses beneath Jaskier's chin, moving his mouth to the hinge of his jaw.

He rolls his hips down against Jaskier's, feels the hard outline of his cock against his own, the friction wonderful and maddening. Jaskier arches up with a moan, legs splaying wider, letting Geralt press more comfortably against him.

"Fuck," Jaskier spits. "Fuck. Geralt. I love it when—when you pin me down like this." 

Geralt hmms, silently urging Jaskier to keep talking as he noses at his neck, slips his left hand higher while he presses Jaskier down onto the bed with the other. His thumb finds Jaskier's nipple and he drags the rough pad of his finger over it, feels it stiffen under his touch and Jaskier gasps.

"Geralt. I—oh sweet gods, I—"

"Yes?" Geralt murmurs into Jaskier's neck, nipping at the soft skin under his mouth.

He doesn't want Jaskier to say anything he will regret, wants to offer Jaskier the same courtesy he did when Geralt was under his own truth spell. But by gods, he wants to hear this. Wants to know he's doing all the right things when they're like this, because as vocal as Jaskier is in bed, there's always this little voice in the back of Geralt's head that wonders. 

Geralt has paid for sex more often than not and while he's always tried to make it good, at the end of the day he had paid for _his_ pleasure and he has been treated accordingly. And even when his companion for the night hadn't been a prostitute, things had never felt balanced. People fear him and those that don't, those that want to sleep with him anyway, usually want to because they're in awe of witchers. Because he isn't like them, isn't human. They're eager to please, to impress, want to prove something to themselves, to him. That they can handle a monster, please a monster. Geralt, selfishly, has taken, has let his needs be met.

Jaskier is different. Jaskier's not just there for one night and he's not a convenient warm body either—no, Jaskier might be the least convenient person Geralt could want. But he does, he wants him. And he wants to know that every moan and gasp he draws is heartfelt, that he is giving Jaskier what he needs.

He lifts himself up to look down at Jaskier, and slowly, deliberately grinds down against him. "Good?" he grunts and watches Jaskier's face, the pink on his cheek, the kiss-bruised lips that part around a needy noise.

"Always," Jaskier mumbles, lifting his hips up, meeting Geralt's as his hands fumble to drag him back down. "Always so good to me. Please. Can you— _oh please._ "

He's pulling at Geralt, even though it's useless and Geralt doesn't budge. 

_I love it when you pin me down_. The words echo through Geralt's head. He hums and leans down, places a kiss to Jaskier's slack mouth as he reaches behind his neck and untangles Jaskier's hands from his shirt, bringing them down above his head, pressing them into the pillow. He can feel the flutter of Jaskier's pulse, strong and fast.

"Like this?" he asks, while pressing one knee against Jaskier's, nudging his legs further apart as he settles more firmly between them, letting his weight rest fully on top of Jaskier.

Jaskier lets out a low groan, nodding his head. Geralt nuzzles his jaw, presses his mouth against Jaskier's throat, and rolls his hips, their cocks dragging together, his body pressing Jaskier down into the mattress. 

The _thump, thump, thump_ of Jaskier's heart is erratic under his lips, and Geralt presses his mouth more firmly to his pulse.

"Jaskier," he groans, and Jaskier lets out a noise between a moan and laugh.

" _Yes_." 

Geralt isn't sure what Jaskier is saying yes to, but he knows he means it, can feel it, can smell it. There's no fear he can scent, no discomfort, just sharp, warm arousal.

Geralt ruts against him more insistently, over and over, feels the want in his belly coil tightly, feels the pleasure spread through him like molten lava, slow and hot and unstoppable.

Jaskier squirms deliciously under him, each breath a gasp or moan, and he hooks a leg behind Geralt, heel digging into his thigh, like he's trying to get Geralt even closer, hold them together.

Geralt lets out a quiet growl, snaps his hips down faster and tightens his hold on Jaskier's wrists, so slim, so soft under his touch, and Jaskier _whimpers_. Geralt feels him tremble, hears his breath stutter and then he smells the salty, musky scent of his release.

"Fuck," Geralt mutters. He tucks his face into the crook of Jaskier's neck, breathes, feels himself surrounded by the scent, the heat of Jaskier. He's still trembling, body more pliant, and Geralt thrusts against him, once, twice, three times and comes with a grunt.

Geralt goes boneless, sinks more comfortably down onto Jaskier. He lets go of his wrists and turns his head, lips brushing over skin, resting against Jaskier's cheek for a moment. Carefully, Geralt rolls them over, and Jaskier makes a small noise as Geralt rearranges them on the bed, until Jaskier is settled against his side, head on Geralt's shoulder, nose brushing against his throat.

He lifts his head and kisses sweat-damp hair. "I didn't know you liked being held down this much," he says, before he can stop himself, doubt creeping back into his mind. 

"I like a lot of things," Jaskier says with a snort, his voice sounding wrecked. 

He does, Geralt knows. Jaskier approaches sex the same way he approaches most things in life: with brash confidence, a wide smile and an eagerness Geralt envies him for. 

"I like it with you. I like most things with you," Jaskier continues. "When you hold me down, you could take anything. I couldn't do a thing about it and I would let you do anything anyway, happily. But you don't. It's always about me first, about my pleasure. Don't think I haven't noticed that. You like it when I like it. Not everyone is like that. I'm just a bard with a pretty face and a reputation; people want me in their bed so I can give them a night of uncomplicated pleasure and then be gone in the morning. But not you. You're never like that."

Geralt hums, slides his arms around Jaskier wordlessly, and there's a tightness in his chest that unravels. 

"Stupid fucking truth serum," Jaskier mutters, and Geralt snorts.

He turns his face into Jaskier's hair again, breathes in the scent of fresh sweat and flowery soap. 

"Do I please you?" Jaskier asks quietly, voice strained. "Sometimes I wonder. And I want to, I hope I do." 

Geralt tightens his arms around Jaskier. "Yes," he says and loosens his embrace again. "Sleep now, Jaskier. The serum will wear off soon."

*

Geralt wakes up when Jaskier squirms out of his arms. He blinks his eyes open into slits and grunts, letting go of him.

Jaskier is scowling at him. "This is gross, Geralt," he grouses. "My clothes are ruined. We're going to have to stay another night so I can get them cleaned and so I can find whoever slipped something in my drink and do stabby things to them."

"Jaskier," Geralt mutters. 

"And you! Letting me fall asleep in my clothes," Jaskier says, shaking his head as he slips out of bed. "We're never going to do that again."

"Jaskier," Geralt repeats. "Lie to me." 

Jaskier turns to him. He stands there, fine clothes wrinkled and his hair a ruffled mess, and then he grins. "I just did, my darling witcher."

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a prompt, let me know:  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/whispered_story) | [tumblr](https://whispered-story.tumblr.com/)


End file.
